on poetry

I am slowly realizing
that my thoughts are
everyday, like waves
of clouds

my writing, and the urge to
write, is a construct, like
trying to catch those clouds
as they were

and poetry, my need to
write poetry, is my only
salvation, to just let the
clouds
be.

what i know

i know that any thought
i think
is already gone

i know every film i make
is a shadow of what i see

i know that everything
i write
has already been forgotten

i see the rain droplets
before me
and
it is the only peace i know

indigo madness

a cityscape

of buildings rising

skeletons of an ancient race

softly rising, softly falling

slow whimpers, incoherance,

the dawn approaches

indigo madness

artificial leaves

in artificial light

so real to the touch,

this hologram

where are we going

where is it leading us

where is the sun

and the moon that i knew

why all the plastic

in all that i taste

i look through the building

through its exo-husk

i see the city

it tries to become

i feel the madness

it tries to contain

and i know of babel

and how it must fall

fer e

mark kozelek's lyricism transcends

like debussy.

the restraint he exercises,

those builds and crests and falls

and builds again,

until releasement.

like finishing a thought

all the way through.

looking into the mountains though,

and looking at the river flow

with old friends,

but memories

and one day, you know this day,

it has been written into the

stars

that emotions escape you.